we have to ask real questions
and be prepared to take real action.
It doesn’t matter anymore
what mother did to me,
what father did to me.
Shall I stay in this job?
Shall I stay in this relationship?
Am I going to live?
even if I don’t know what that means?
I sat in crying meditation for you tonight after work. I even cried when I thought of you this morning. I know you hate it when I cry for you or the grief of anyone else, but it’s true. I do love you and crying is just what I do when I’ve lost someone. Me. I tried to turn it off, but we both had to learn that I was made to be a crier (and a laugher). Broad spectrums are the worst, aren’t we?
It’s almost your birthday and as I searched for a gift that you would find “good”, I find another someday read, The Sacred Prostitute and then laughed to myself a bit because this “sacred” book and the topic of sex is probably one of the last messages you would have ever wanted to read or talk about with me, your youngest daughter. Especially on your 66th birthday (66?”they” don’t need to know that, whomever “they” are).
Reflecting on these last 37 years since you made me, forming the idea of a Stephan that would someday be Stephanie, there must have been a vision of who you wanted me to be. Somehow after all these years of twists and turns, I’m pretty certain that I didn’t end up as I was designed in your head, making reality a semi-funny version of your vision.
In any case, here is a rambling letter to you, and it’s wisdom that I seek in all these stories to myself. I will never actually send this to you, of course. Instead, I will call you and we will talk about our health, the weather, and every topic that brings you comfort and joy because that’s respect. Having learned which topics of discussion are permissible in your house, sex isn’t on that list and neither is the word f*** or s***, though I do all of that. A 37-year old woman now, that’s OK. I figured those words out on my own for the most part and I love you, you got here first, so you can pick “right”.
What I haven’t quite fully grasped is how to marry what you taught me about sex with what I know today about the single life. Daily, I have the opportunity to connect with potential suitors at the speed of a button’s touch. Having such ease, what is wrong or right with this system? Mine and ours. Sex seems to be the problem. Problem after problem, it’s an infection of the human system.
Sex wasn’t such a big deal to me when I was a kid, but now it feels like a burden and I’m sick to death or life of men who bring up this topic with me within minutes, hours or days of meeting. It’s my own fault apparently, I have a vagina, I speak gracefully and I was gifted a face that looks f***able for a while. Sure, maybe if he is special we will cuddle, but sex? I’m sick to death of that topic. Aren’t you sick of this paragraph?
Selah (aka S.tephan/ie)